


Agape

by bluestoplights



Category: Wonder Woman (2017), Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drama, Epistolary, F/M, Fix-It, Modern Era, Pen Pals, Post-Movie(s), Reincarnation, Romance, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 11:09:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11147187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluestoplights/pseuds/bluestoplights
Summary: In the grand scheme of things that are unbelievable, a superpowered Amazonian goddess should top the list. Closely followed by a reincarnated WWI spy who has been swapping letters with her without even knowing it.





	Agape

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, the plan was definitely not to write a 16k+ fic about the new Wonder Woman. I definitely opened up a document like, "Alright, I'll just write a short fix-it to make myself feel better, it'll be fine. Maybe I'll post it. It'll be like, 3k words tops."
> 
> That is...clearly not what happened.
> 
> I went in to the movie kind of having doubts, but man, it was so good. The anti-war message really resonated with me, and it's something that is definitely very predominant in this fic. The message of the importance of the preservation human life in war...not emphasized enough today. Especially considering modern war-culture tends to excuse these actions from Western Good Guys (TM) that the movie made a point of stating had their own blood on their hands. 
> 
> (And yeah, that includes the IDF and the US, but you can read it for yourself.)
> 
> I really wanted to be careful with how I portrayed things in this modern, very political context. I definitely didn't want to shy away from continuing the theme of the importance of fighting for what's right even when the bodies that are supposed to be good aren't. I also wanted to keep in mind that this fic is written by a white American and centered on two characters who are white and one that is portrayed by a former IDF soilder, so, you know. Hopefully everything here stays in its lane while still making that larger point. Also, I just can't picture Steve or Diana ever excusing inhumane military actions considering it is antithetical to their entire characterizations!
> 
> I also hope that their characterizations don't reek too much of savior complexes, but considering this is superhero fanfiction...it is a very tough line to walk on. 
> 
> Also...it's been such a long time since I've written fic. I really apologize in advanced, folks. Oh, and I didn't watch BVS? This kind of takes place after a Justice League type situation? IDK, IDK, but I can't guarantee my mythology and accuracy to canon is the greatest. 
> 
> Title comes from a song by Bear's Den I really love that really makes me think of this ship. A nice element of the word 'agape' is that it comes from a word in Greek meaning "the love of God for man and of man for God". Considering Diana is a goddess, it just felt very appropriate.

Some days it hurts more than others.

That is the nature of grief, Diana has learned. Immortality comes with its drawbacks, chief among them being forced to watch everyone die before her. Life in Themyscira, before she ever ventured outside of its limits, was much easier by comparison. Being surrounded by warriors that constantly trained but never had reason to die was a quite different, less painful existence.

This world is hard and cruel and unforgiving, and many of its people are the reason it is.

What makes it worse is that the nature of war is much different than it was in 1918. There are not very many unilateral, massive conflicts as much as many smaller ones. The world's superpowers do not deploy their ground troops as much as they do their planes. They're used more often to deploy deadly weapons than to rid the world of them.

Steve saved that day, she knows. But it's still up to her to save the world, which is task that becomes more challenging every day. As powerful as she may be, she cannot be in a hundred different places at once. Bombs drop, weapons are drawn, and families are slaughtered nearly at random. When she's working to help people take back their land from Daesh in Iraq, there's a drone that gets dropped in Pakistan and a stabbing in London.

It's omnipresent, this war that has managed to outlast and overpower what Ares was capable of when he was alive. He may be gone, but his whispers and influence are still hurting the world. Humans are still killing each other.

And maybe that's the hardest part of this reminder of Steve Trevor, the brave man who had seen nothing but war and sacrificed himself in order to end it. In spite of that sacrifice, the state of things only seemed to get worse. There was a second great war. There are still many villages that she can't liberate, many women and children that die without recourse, many sacrifices much like Steve's that go unacknowledged and forgotten.

His last words still haunt her.

" _I'm sorry I didn't believe. But I'd given up on believing in so much. Until I met you. From the first day saw you, you were everything I wanted to believe in. You can do this, Diana. I know you can. But I have to go. I wish we had more time. It's okay. This is what I came here to do. I can save today, but you...you can save the world. I love you."_

She never had the opportunity that she too found belief in him, that she loved him in return. And he'd never have the opportunity to see the people his sacrifice saved. Or how much things didn't truly change. The world, in many ways, is just as lost as it was a century ago. And Steve isn't here to show her what the best parts of it look like anymore. It's a thought that comes to her more and more often. Though the reminder of him is a gift, the ghost of him is a sorrow.

-/-

Therapy, she's learned, is something that humans have refined over the years in order to cope.

She started seeing Olivie a few years ago, curious as to how humans dealt with the constant up and downs of living. In Themyscira, the women all comforted and strengthened one another, and Diana has discovered that this practice isn't much different.

Admittedly, Olivie had trouble getting used to the idea of helping a goddess process her feelings rather than the average human patient, but she proved herself to be up to the task. When Diana has seen an especially violent battle, too many lives lost, and is feeling helpless, she turns to Olivie.

Now, she supposes she should do the same with a loss she has had a century to get over but never quite has.

"It's been a while," Olivie says with a smile, dusting off her skirt to greet Diana as she walks into the room. "How have you been feeling?"

"Well," Diana replies, perhaps too quickly. "I've been feeling well. And yourself?"

"This isn't about me, Diana," Olivie reminds her, not unkindly.

"Alright," she acknowledges, sitting down on the office's couch with her back straight.

There's an awkward pause between the two of them.

Olivie is the first to break it. "What's on your mind, Diana?"

Diana crosses her legs, her posture still intact. She'll keep that composed, even if she isn't entirely confident her emotions will remain so. "A man I used to know."

"Ah," Olivie says with a note of interest. "And who was this man?"

"His name was Steve Trevor. He was a spy. I met him when he washed up on the shores of my home, and he introduced me to his. This world."

She pauses there. It's difficult to put it into words, to put him into words. It feels almost distasteful to summarize a man who deserved so much more than a few sentences.

"You've never talked about him before," Olivie notes, her voice careful.

"I know," Diana sighs, fiddling with the watch on her wrist. She doesn't usually wear it, keeps it locked up somewhere safe as she doesn't know how well it would endure the heat of battle, but the reminder is a comfort.

Time has passed, but the face of the clock still reads 9:05.

"What made you think of him now?"

"I saw his face," Diana answers, her voice quiet. "In a photograph, of course, but it'd been...it'd been much too long. But I've always thought of him. Every day, I carry his memory."

"You miss him."

"I loved him," Diana says, and it's the first time she's ever said the words aloud. A hundred years later, and this is her first declaration of her feelings for a man long dead. "And I never got to tell him that."

"And how are you coping with that?"

Diana doesn't know how to respond to that.

"There's a camp of families that was targeted in Iraq by Daesh. I was just there, a few days ago, to fend off the army that tried to capture them. They have many still left to tend to. Wounded and dead. I plan on returning there tomorrow."

It's not an answer, at least, not one directly relevant to Steve. Diana wipes away the tears from under her eyes. Olivie looks at her with that intense scrutiny she's so used to seeing.

"You know, it may feel overwhelming to be around quite that quantity of grief when you're experiencing it yourself-"

Diana stops her before she has the chance to finish what she's saying. "It's what I have to do."

"You can't save the world if you don't take care of yourself, Diana."

"And how do you suggest I do that?"

"Talk to someone."

"Am I not talking to you?" Diana counters. "I talk to many people. There aren't many I would see myself discussing...this with."

"Well, if you feel uncomfortable talking face to face with someone, write a letter."

"To whom?"

Olivie shrugs her shoulders. "Perhaps to someone who doesn't receive many of them."

"It's 2018, I don't believe many people receive letters in this day and age."

"You know what I meant, Diana. Perhaps connecting with someone on a one-to-one basis who understands some of what you've seen is exactly what you need. It may be what they need, too. That way, you don't worry so much about saving them as you do listening to them and being listened to."

Diana purses her lips, considering Olivie's words.

-/-

When she returns from Iraq, after trying to console the hundreds that lost their loved ones, Diana supposes she might need a break. Immediately before this were the lone attacks in Poland, and before then the aftermath of the strikes in Yemen. Olivie was right, the sheer quantity of grief was beginning to rub at a raw nerve.

A husband crying out for a departed wife is an image that refuses to leave her mind.

So, she does all she can, and she returns to her home in Paris.

But just because Diana has taken a short break, doesn't mean war has. Diana sees a bombing on the news - this one a hospital in Gaza - and sighs in relief when she sees there are no fatalities. It's a near miracle that there was only one hospitalization of a humanitarian worker, the anchor reads off the teleprompter, and in no time they're on to the next subject.

Western media in general is fickle like that. A quick search for a more in-depth report, however, tells her this man was the only one injured because he ran into the hospital to help everyone out himself when they received the short warning of the strike's arrival.

There's no name listed. Still, the story of a man running towards a bomb instead of away from one for the sake of saving lives is one that is achingly familiar.

She lets out a sigh, and thinks of what Olivie told her. Diana picks up the phone and calls a contact at Amnesty.

-/-

He's lucky he didn't get blown to pieces, he's told.

Steve Trevor doesn't feel particularly fortunate. He's in a hospital, will likely be stuck there for _weeks_ , after just getting bombed in a different one. Lucky would be catching a stray baseball at a Red Sox game, or winning the lottery, or laying on a beach with a cold beer and a beautiful woman.

Not having a concussion, several broken bones, and a severely burned right arm. The no fatalities part was lucky, though, he can admit that much.

He's seen enough of those.

They got a little warning ahead of time to move people out, which is more than bombed areas usually get.

Maybe his hospitalization is poetic justice for being a pilot when America dropped many of its own bombs. He immediately feels guilty at the thought, knowing just how rare it is for civilians (and he is a civilian now, after all) to survive drones or bombs or rockets. It was the reason he dropped out of the military, after all, and took the black mark of a dishonorable discharge so he could do something _good_. Like he thought he was meant to do after he joined the Air Force.

Steve survived. Many didn't.

It's hard to forget that.

He sighs, spread out on the sparse cot. He's told he was moved out of Gaza to Lebanon, where refugees have been moving to escape the strikes. The hospital here is a little nicer than the one he left behind - especially considering that it isn't rubble - and he gets his own room. No TV, sure, and his phone likely didn't survive the blast in Gaza so he's short on entertainment while he's waiting for his bones to knit back together, but it's better medical treatment than many get.

Steve's new definition of good seems to be 'not as bad as it could be'. That itself says something. Still, as a white guy in the midst of people in incredibly shitty situations, it's difficult to not be aware of his own privilege.

He's considering this when a nurse walks in the room, an envelope in his hand.

"That doesn't look like painkillers," Steve deadpans.

"It isn't," the nurse says as Steve sits up with a wince, depositing the mail in his lap. "Looks like you've got mail."

"This is, uh," Steve frowns, turning over the envelope in his hand. It feels like _expensive_ paper, more silk than wood, and the fact that it manages to do that when his fingers are covered in blisters is a feat on its own. The nurse, wide-eyed enough to be early in his Doctors Without Borders term, eyes both it and him with interest. Like this will be some love-letter from a long-estranged beau, a historical romance trope come to life. "I'm not exactly expecting mail."

Steve looks at the return address with a furrow in his brow. There's no name. "I don't think I know anyone in Paris."

"Well, then, open it," the nurse - his nametag reads Rami - retorts, almost sounding impatient.

"Not with you staring over my shoulder like I got a note stuffed in my locker by a secret admirer."

Rami rolls his eyes. "Oh come on, I need all the entertainment I can get around here."

"How am I even getting mail?"

"A lot of people can't visit patients here. They need an address to send letters to."

Steve can't think of anyone alive who'd even care enough to check on him, bombed or not. "Right. Well, I'm not reading this to you, so you may as well leave."

Rami looks put out, but finally concedes. Steve shakes his head, tearing open the envelope and briefly feeling guilty for ruining the good stationary (seriously, who would waste the fancy paper?) before he unfolds the letter enclosed.

It's a handwritten note, to his surprise. He was half expecting a bill.

_To whom it may concern,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I heard about your story, and I would like to express my gratitude for your work in serving those who need it the most. Your heroism, especially in times when many need it the most, does not go unnoticed. Battles for the lives of innocents are not fought just on the front lines, but in humanitarian quests like yours. Too often, casualties are dismissed as insignificant and inconsequential. Your actions show that there are still some of us who believe in the value of human life and dignity._

_Wishing you a quick and full recovery,_

_D.P._

Steve doesn't know whether he should crumple the letter up or burn it. He didn't save the day, not really. He just was in a hospital that got bombed by the IDF based on claims that it was an arsenal for Hamas. It wasn't, of course, but that's never stopped strikes.

He knows this because he argued the same to his superiors when it was the U.S. dropping the bombs in Yemen. All he got was laughed at and accused of being a terrorist sympathizer.

(They wanted him to strike a fucking _wedding_.)

Steve doesn't know who D.P. is, and clearly they don't know him either. They don't even know his name, if the address label and the _'to whom it may concern'_ is any indication, and it's clear that he's just some guy (maybe they worded it as _'injured humanitarian worker'_ ) on the news that they felt briefly sorry for. Which they shouldn't. Steve isn't some hero, he's just a guy who decided to drop himself in war zones because he felt guilty for his part in them. A generic letter with intricate cursive and a pretentious letterhead doesn't change that.

He tosses the letter and the envelope on his bedside with an irritated grunt, telling himself when he can walk again he'll burn it.

-/-

The thing is, Steve is _bored_.

He can't move (he needs help to even get out of bed to pee, which is its own trauma), all of the newspapers are in Arabic (he can speak it much better than he can read it, unfortunately), and it's not as if he has company beyond those assigned to make sure he doesn't kill himself by sleeping too long with his concussion.

There comes a point - and he's talking a big game here, but it's only a few hours afterwards - that he decides to write this D.P. person, whoever the hell they are, back. Maybe ranting at some rich bleeding heart would entertain him for a little while. As burnt as his hands are, it could take a few hours.

-/-

_Dear D.P.,_

_Frankly, I have no idea who you are. I don't know how you got the hospital I'm at, considering you don't even know my name. I don't know why a random line in a newscast (I'm assuming) led you to waste this high thread count paper on me. I just - okay, this reply is a little rude. Were you expecting a reply? Either way, this hospital is slowly driving me up the wall and this letter is the weirdest thank-you note I think I've ever received. Not that I get a lot of thank-you notes, but still. This was a weird letter. And, because I am left unentertained in a hospital that has serious capacity problems, you get a confused and slightly annoyed reply._

_Why send me a letter when you don't even know who I am? Without even telling me who you are? Is this some sort of mysterious pen-pal thing? Do you send a letter to everyone who gets hurt when a bomb gets dropped? If so, you must be sending a lot of letters. Just answer this part for me, because I have nothing else to do but try and solve this strange mystery in my head for the next few weeks, why did you send me that letter?_

_And also, who are you? All I have to go off of here are your initials._

_You know what, I'll just leave you with my initials too if we're going that route,_

_S.T._

Diana frowns at the letter in her hands, eyes narrowing on the clearly hastily-written scrawl. It wasn't what she was expecting. She doesn't know what she expected, to be quite honest with herself, and she has to wonder if the advice she received from Olivie was misinformed. Or rather, if Diana's execution was.

It's likely the latter.

The man has a point, this S.T. It must feel strange to receive correspondence from someone you've never met and from someone who doesn't know you in the slightest. Diana meant that to be the point of it, A letter to a stranger was a way to connect with someone who understood the brunt of war without quite having to immerse herself in their pain. It's selfish of her, it feels like, but she's felt so helpless as of late that she doesn't quite know if she's useful to grieving humans when she's dealing with scar tissue from a century ago.

Still, she can't help but feel as if she owes it to S.T. to give him the truth.

-/-

_Dear S.T._

_I apologize for how this letter may seem. You are correct, it was odd of me to send a letter to you without any proper understanding of the context you are in. But I'd like to know about you, how you're feeling. I don't often - never, actually - send letters to strangers. But your story resonated with me. Too many sacrifices in wars go unacknowledged. You nearly gave up your life to save people in that hospital, from the sounds of it. If mine is the only letter you received, that only makes me more determined to send you well wishes._

_Since I'm asking about you, it only seems fair to give you an idea of who I am. I work with many different governments and oftentimes people unaffiliated with their governments to help them find peace and justice. I suppose your story seemed familiar to me. I've seen bombs go off, but typically people run away from them instead of towards them. I've known a select few who have had the courage to do what you did. They're among the people I hold in the highest of regards._

_I hope you're making a quick recovery from your injuries,_

_D.P._

Honestly, Steve is surprised he even got another letter. After his little rant, he was hardly expecting one.

Steve catches Rami trying to lean over his shoulder to read what the letter says, and he sighs. "You should really learn to mind your own business, man."

"I know," Rami says, but his voice is not remorseful in the slightest. It figures. "If you finish a reply in an hour, I can get it sent today."

Steve rolls his eyes, but picks up a pen anyways.

-/-

_Dear D.P._

_I may have been a little sharp. Sorry. Not exactly used to getting letters from strangers. I appreciate the interest, I guess? There isn't much to know about me. I work for an NGO that's currently trying to help people in Palestine deal with a constant barrage of fire. Before I was in Syria, but I moved here when this campaign started._

_I'm feeling out of it, if that counts as a feeling, as they've got me on a pretty steady stream of painkillers._

_Are you a U.N. peacekeeper, or something? I thought they were supposed to stay out of things, for the most part. Most of the ones I've met have been useless. No offense to you, of course, but I'm curious how you manage 'being a solider where you're needed'. Where are you from?_

-/-

_Dear S.T._

_My explanation was confusing, wasn't it? I apologize. I'm not a U.N. peacekeeper, I suppose I work independently. A contractor, you might call me, though my primary goal has never been profit margin as much as ensuring that as many people survive as possible. A friend got me into this line of work. He was a soldier, a very brave one. I'm from a very small island near Greece, and he showed me quite a bit about how to live in a more...populated area?_

_I commend your work. Both Syria and Palestine desperately need all the help they can get, and I find it admirable that you are willing to give it. Now I'm curious - how did you get into this line of work?_

_I hope you are recovering quickly,_

_D.P._

-/-

_Dear D.P._

_I hope your friend is doing okay. I get being pulled into this by someone else - isn't that the way these things always go? - but at least you seem to be doing it for the right reasons._

_I used to be in the military. Air Force, to be exact. I was a pilot. My dad was big on pushing me to go on to do something great, something to help people when there was wrong in the world. I thought the military would be how to do that. And maybe it was, once. But I didn't agree with a lot of the choices of those higher ranked than me, and of course in the military disagreement isn't really an option. Dropping drone strikes on civilian populations isn't exactly what I imagined when I enlisted for the sake of the greater good._

_So one day I told them no. They wanted me to pilot a strike that was meant to hit a wedding. And I just...said no. I refused. And that was the equivalent of desertion, to them. I got dishonorably discharged, which basically means in the eyes of the U.S. military, I'm a felon. But then again, I thought what they were doing was criminal, so maybe turnabout is fair play. Or something._

_I still wanted to help people, though, and my skillset at least gave me something to do that. I don't really get to fly planes a lot anymore, but the humanitarian groups always could use people with combat, war zone experience. I at least had that going for me, and they were sympathetic enough to my situation that they hired me despite the shame of a DD._

_My dad died right around the time I first enlisted. My mother was gone by the time I was a teenager, and I didn't have siblings. He was proud of me then. I don't know if he still would be, but I hope so._

_Sorry. This is a lot. I'm sure this is not what you had in mind for a reply._

_I hope you're doing alright,_

_S.T._

-/-

_Dear S.T._

_I must confess, you remind me greatly of a man I used to know. The friend I spoke of. He, too, was a pilot intent on saving all of those he could. I've been thinking of him a lot recently. Admittedly, his memory is one of the reasons I sent you the first letter. I didn't want more sacrifices to go unappreciated. Do not worry about sharing your feelings and experiences; they're exactly what I want to hear._

_Best,_

_D.P._

_-/-_

_Dear D.P._

_Would I be right to assume that your British soldier friend is no longer with us? From the way you speak of him, he was a great man. I'm flattered by the comparison as he obviously means a lot to you. I did some things in the military I regret, though. I'd hardly classify myself as a hero._

_If you want to tell me more about your friend, I'd love to hear it. You listened (or read) about enough of me. I can do the same for you._

_S.T._

_-/-_

_Dear S.T._

_You're correct. My friend is no longer with us. He died sacrificing himself to save the lives of others. I've kept him in my heart. He reminds me of you in more ways than one, actually. Dry sense of humor. Thoughtful. Stubborn, but patient. I don't think he ever really thought of himself as a hero, either, despite the fact that he most definitely was._

_He was compassionate and brave, and it was him that showed me the parts of this world that are worth trying to save. He taught me that it was about what you believed, not what you thought people deserved. When I first met him, I didn't think I understood him in the slightest. His customs were strange (my hometown was very disconnected from the rest of the world and there wasn't a man in sight, but I wouldn't trade the women I was raised by for anything) and he could be quite confusing at times. But he helped make me into the person I am today. For that, I am forever grateful._

_Oddly enough, writing about him helps. It makes me feel as if his legacy is still continuing, even if his life isn't. Thank you for giving me this chance to share part of his story._

_How is your recovery going?_

_Best,_

_D.P._

_-/-_

_Dear D.P._

_I'm doing better, but I'll still probably be stuck in this hospital for a little while longer. Thank you for telling me about your friend. He really must have been something to make you talk about him like that._

_I am curious about this island of yours, though. I grew up in the American Midwest, so I don't have any particularly exciting stories there, but a small, unpopulated, female-dominated island off the coast of Greece sounds...was it called Paradise Island, by any chance?_

_S.T._

_-/-_

_Dear S.T._

_I'm glad to hear you're recovering, and I hope you're able to return home soon! You deserve the real rest._

_The place where I grew up was interesting, to say the least. You wouldn't recognize the name of it; it was not called Paradise Island. But it had the most beautiful waters and vibrant plant life. I miss it quite terribly, sometimes, especially in comparison to how drab some of my surroundings look. There are some things I like about being away, however. We never got snow. In Paris, we get quite a bit. The first time I saw it I thought it was utterly magical._

_But the most wonderful part of the island I was raised in were the women I grew up with. They trained me to be fierce, compassionate, and well-read. My aunt trained me in combat from when I was a child until I left. My mother helped me learn almost every language, which comes in handy quite often. It was home, but one I can never go back to. I've become more accustomed to other ways of life._

_Now you have to tell me about where you're from,_

_D.P._

_-/-_

_Dear D.P._

_If you like snow, I should take you to Wisconsin. That's my home state. You probably wouldn't recognize the name of my small town, either (Monroe - our biggest claim to fame was the Cheese Trail), but I have an attachment to it even after being away for so long. I haven't stepped foot there in a solid...seven years? Give or take? It's been a while._

_I get not being able to come back. I don't know if I'll ever feel like I can again. I'm just a different person than I used to be, and there's nothing for me there anymore._

_I'm very impressed by several things about your growing up, here. First of all, training in combat seems...intense. My dad was military, and even I didn't get any training until I actually enlisted myself. And almost every language? I almost feel like I should challenge you on that. I know some Arabic (better at speaking and hearing it than reading and writing it) and German, and I thought that that was impressive._

_I have good news to share, though! I should be getting out of here in a week, everything is healing nicely enough for me to just continue physical therapy and not be stuck in a hospital room with bare walls and nothing else. I've been going a little stir crazy._

_Your letters have helped._

_Oh, and I'm pretty sure my handwriting has gotten better. I haven't written this much by hand in forever._

_Yours,_

_S.T._

Diana can't help the smile that appears on her face as she reads his words. Her thumb runs over the inked in _'yours'_ in spite of herself. They've been corresponding for weeks now, her and this 'S.T.', and there's something so comforting about his familiarity. He's a stranger, but he hardly feels like one at all.

Her poor mailman is almost terrified of her now, as every time he appears she practically snatches the letter out of his hands. She still makes her trips, goes around the world to help where she can. Paris, however, is where she always returns to in order to respond to S.T.

But as happy as she is to hear he's recovering and leaving the hospital soon, another part of her mourns at the possibility that he'd like to end this correspondence here. After all, this was only meant to be an exchange to wish him well and thank him for a noble deed. Extending that into a month long back and forth took it a step further. If she keeps mailing him after this, well…

There's another step.

She hasn't felt this way in what feels like forever, hasn't been this excited to talk to someone. To share her thoughts, her feelings, her insights. And yes, the fact that he reminds her so much of Steve may be part of it.

(Even his initials, S.T.)

And perhaps when she pictures the man she's talking with, she imagines it's Steve. He sounds so much like him, down to the endearing way he babbles and the way he speaks of his father's legacy. Sometimes, Diana can let herself pretend that he's back and she no longer has to wonder what he'd think of things - she can just ask.

But she can't keep deluding herself forever. It's not healthy, as Olivie would point out. Clinging to this last glimpse of Steve isn't fair to her or S.T.

So, Diana makes the decision to stop the anonymity.

-/-

_Dear S.T.,_

_I'm relieved to hear your condition is improving! I imagine it will feel incredible to be out of the hospital and back to yourself once more. You say you don't read Arabic well, so I'll just leave you with:_ _Deine Heimatstadt klingt schön._

_Since you're soon leaving the hospital, it only feels right to tell you more about myself. Starting with my name. The initials were strange, looking back on it, and I don't quite know why I was so averse to giving you my name. It's Diana Prince. If you wish to address me as Diana from now on, please feel free to._

_I've enjoyed having this conversations with you immensely. I'm very to happy here you've derived some pleasure from them as well. And yes, your handwriting has vastly improved._

_Wishing you luck and happiness,_

_Diana_

He tries her name on his tongue.

"Diana," Steve says, aloud, and it's as if he's summoned Rami with the way he immediately has his head in the doorway.

"Is that the name of the girl who's been sending you love letters?"

Steve just lets out an exasperated groan. "You know, in a way I'll miss these exchanges, Rami. It's like you're the best friend in a romantic comedy."

"I can't believe you never let me read a single one. I'm glad you finally know your secret admirer."

"She's not my-"

"Oh, please," Rami rolls his eyes. "You've got a lot going for you, here. Rugged hero? Fanmail?"

"It's not fanmail, for fuck's sake Rami."

"Maybe not," he acknowledges,"but no one sends letters that quickly from Paris for someone they just want to thank for their service."

With that, Rami leaves the room.

"Come on, man, you're not even going to give me my meds?"

He, of course, ignores Steve entirely. Which just leaves him with what he said before he left.

Diana is…

Well, she's amazing, to start with. As skeptical as he was of her expensive stationary and too-elegant handwriting, there's a genuine tone to all of her letters that makes him not doubt a single word of what she says - even if it sounds outlandish. A woman from a small island that trained to go and help others in warzones?

I mean, Diana almost sounds like a superhero.

And it's not just that. She's kind. She's empathetic. He feels like even meeting her would be an adventure, and - Jesus Christ he is so _fucked_.

He really, really likes her.

And all he's had to go off are these letters.

With that, Rami walks back in, Steve's dose of painkillers in a tube between his forefinger and thumb. "Tell her how you feel and I'll give you the meds."

"Have you ever heard of HIPAA? Who even gave you a nursing license?"

"I said what I said.."

"God, you must really be bored here."

"You have no idea."

-/-

_Diana,_

_Since you told me your real name (it suits you, by the way), I guess it's only fair to give you mine. I'm Steve Trevor. Steven Trevor, if we're going the full former name route, but everyone just calls me Steve. Our timing isn't bad for revealing ourselves. They're finally letting me out of the hospital. I'm going back to London until I get my next assignment, and they were kind enough to salvage my old phone number. I left it at the bottom of this page. I hope this isn't crossing the line, I'm assuming you preferred the old-school letter format for some reason or another, but it'd be nice to talk to you without waiting forever in between. I left my new address too. I should be there within the next few days._

_Just in case you decide to end this chain here, after I'm no longer an invalid, I just want to tell you… Thank you for sending me that first letter, and all of the ones that came afterwards. I know I was a pain about it at first, but they've kept me good company. Your kindness, your generosity, and your wit have shone through all of your words. I've really enjoyed getting to know you, Diana. And if anyone can save the world, it's you._

_I spent the last few weeks feeling pretty shitty about the state of things. Granted, they still aren't great. But you've shown me that there's some really great people out there who want to see it get better, who keep fighting to make it better. I believe a hundred percent that whatever you go on to do, you're going to make people's lives better._

_I feel like there's so much to say, but if I keep writing I don't know if I'll be able to stop the awkward, borderline creepy praise. This is creepy, right? It's just - not a lot of people like me get letters from people like you. It's pretty rare. You're rare. And I don't want to never speak to you again without having you know how incredibly special you are. I know that's dramatic - if you want to keep talking, we can - but I just really wanted you to know how much this and you have meant to me._

_Thank you so much for everything,_

_Steve Trevor_

Diana nearly drops the letter like it's burned her.

It's a coincidence, it has to be, because there is no way -

It can't be her Steve Trevor.

 _He_ can't be her Steve Trevor.

He left a phone number, and it's one she hastily dials. This is how she can prove to herself, once and for all, that she can't keep conflating the man she's been corresponding with and the man she lost. She knows perfectly well what Steve's voice sounds like, even after all these years, so all she needs is for this man to pick up. Diana can't let herself dare to hope for another explanation.

It rings three times without an answer before it goes to his voicemail.

"Hey, it's Steve, sorry I couldn't get to the phone. Leave a message and I'll try to get back to you."

It's _his_ voice.

She presses the 'end call' button more quickly than she ever has in her life, already going to pull up a web browser. Her fingers are shaking on her phone's keyboard as she types in his name, along with the NGO he was working for.

She finds a link to a blog post, a picture of a blond man in a t-shirt and jeans with the brightest blue eyes she's seen in a hundred years leaning against an old plane. She'd know his face anywhere.

The hand that isn't holding her phone clasps over her mouth as she cries.

Diana doesn't know how or why it happened, but Steve Trevor is alive and well. She's been talking to him for the past month without even realizing it. Telling him how he reminded her of a man she loved when he's been that very same man.

Steve is _alive_.

It doesn't take her more than five minutes to buy a ticket to London.

-/-

Her phone rings the next day.

"Hey, it's, uh, Steve," he says, sounding unsure of himself. "I got my phone and saw the missed call and I just - any chance your name is Diana?"

Hearing him say her name for the first time in far too long makes a lump rise in her throat. "It is. I'm in London," Diana says with a watery smile, as if it's a matter of coincidence rather than her getting on the first flight she saw. "Just touched down."

"Oh? That's...really convenient. I just got here, myself, I'm staying in a friend's old flat. Not that I'm assuming you want to meet, of course, but if you wanted to-"

Diana grins, utterly endeared. She wonders how she ever could have thought he was anyone else. "I do. Would you say your schedule is free for today?"

"I've got a physical therapy appointment at noon...other than that, I'm all yours."

"Any preference for where you'd like to meet?" she asks, voice nearly breathless. She still can't wrap her mind around it. Steve is alive. He's here, in the same city she is. The city he took her to when they first met. It's all she can do to not track him down this instant.

"Um," is all Steve says, at first, and she hears papers rustling on the other side of the line. "There's this ice cream shop right by the train station. I don't know if that's something that'd interest you? I feel like I should be offering up some fancy dinner places, but frankly I wouldn't even know where to start with those. I know the guy that owns the place, though, so that's why...yeah."

"That sounds wonderful," is all she can manage.

-/-

Internet stalking is rude, Steve reminds himself.

But, to be fair, this is the first time he's had internet access is...over a month. And he's been sending letters back and forth with a mysterious woman with a pretty name and an even more interesting background, so, really, who can blame him for being curious about who she is?

Especially when his first Google result gives him a picture of the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

Saying that he's fucked would be an understatement.

Her brief biography (apparently she works with Bruce Wayne, though it's hard to imagine someone like her getting along with a guy as douchey as him - okay, maybe he's being harsh) shows that she's apparently been all across the world as some sort of crisis expert. Which would fit right in line with her letters. It doesn't tell him much more about her than that - not how old she is, not where she went to school, nothing. Oh, and that she used to be a museum curator.

Honestly, it leaves him with more questions than answers.

And if a few pages into the search, he finds a conspiracy thread on some random message board about superheroes that includes her name, who can really blame him for clicking it?

(He can. He can blame him.)

Wonder Woman is the name that gets brought up, with blurry photos that attempt to connect Diana Prince to some warrior princess that's been spotted around the world. He swears it's crazy, that just because Superman and Batman and whoever else are out there doesn't mean that every mysterious person has to be a superhero.

He's ready to close the tab and forget he ever went down this weird, crazy rabbit hole. But then there's another picture, one that's still grainy but looks so just from _age_ , and on her left there's a man that looks just like -

Him.

A man that looks just like him. Except a little more rugged and holding an incredibly long gun.

The caption added says, "Picture's from 1918. Looks just like Diana Prince in the picture, right? I asked around with some serious history nerds and apparently the good looking dude on her left was a spy for the Brits, died in an aircraft explosion right before the war ended and took down a bunch of German weapons with him. Name was Steve Trevor. To his left is Sameer-"

He shuts his laptop like it just tried to bite him. Steve stops reading.

For a second, he stops breathing.

"What the _fuck_?" he asks an empty room.

-/-

He gets to the shop at exactly 12:45, fifteen minutes before the time they both agreed on.

Steve is meeting his pen-pal, who also might be a superhero, and who might have known his doppleganger. He would be nervous just about the first thing, but the mixture of all three is really…

It's really something.

The owner - Ali, a man who has seen him through many a nervous breakdown but none never quite this unbelievable - just shakes his head as Steve settles himself into a booth. Or tries to, at least. He somehow managed to hit himself in the eye with his jacket when he took it off and just knocked all of the napkins onto the floor, so, honestly he's not at his peak performance.

"That nervous for your date, hm?"

"It's not a date," Steve corrects him quickly. "It's not. It's just…"

"You told me you were meeting a very special woman here, Steven. Were you lying?"

"No," he shakes his head vehemently. "I definitely was not. But this isn't a date."

"Right," Ali says, amused. "I'm sure you're this flustered over something that is not a date."

Steve doesn't know how to tell him that he might be meeting a superhero that knew his World War I twin without sounding like an insane person.

So he just sighs.

Ali looks over his shoulder and beams. "You're a lucky man, my friend."

Steve almost asks him what he means, but he hears the bell at the door jingle and turns around to see Diana Prince herself. She looks at him with something like wonder, and he nearly falls when he stands up to greet her. Her brown eyes are wide and her mouth is slightly agape as he walks closer to her, mercifully not tripping over himself for the steps it takes to get toe to toe with her.

God, she is so much more beautiful in person.

"You're taller than I imagined," is all he can manage to say instead.

Diana smiles, and it has to be one of the most gorgeous sights he's ever seen. There's a power to her gait, something strong in her posture, and he can see her being in combat or even as a _fucking superhero_ with no difficulty at all.

"You're just as I imagined you, Steve Trevor," she replies, her accent thickening on his name. He loves the sound of it.

"That a good thing?"

He sees Ali back away in his peripheral vision, his hands up in that 'I'll leave you kids alone' position he's seen the man perfect with teenagers over the years. Which is fair, considering his palms are feeling sweaty enough to belong to a teenager. Steve doesn't even want to know his heart rate.

Diana's smile softens, but remains on her face. "Very much so."

He wants to ask her more questions, something like _'how was your trip?'_ or _'how's your day been?'_ , but he is still so stuck on that picture he saw. The grainy black and white image is saved on his phone, and the more he looks at it the more convinced he becomes that something is going on, here, and it's strange to say the least.

So, of course, this is the first thing he asks her about. "This has got to be the strangest thing that's ever come out of my mouth, but is there any chance that you're an immortal superhero who knew a guy that looked just like me a hundred years ago?"

Diana gapes. "You remember?"

Steve's mouth goes dry, and he finds himself at loss for words. _Remember_? He's...he's not…

Okay, first of all her response implies that those off-the-rocker internet conspiracy theories were right and that it wasn't just some photoshopped picture with a guy just fucking with him. Second of all, that means that she's an _immortal superhero_ who knew a guy that _looked just like him a hundred years ago_. A man that was apparently some World War I hero.

The man who must have been the one she talked about losing in those letters.

Steve really should just be panicking right now. He feels like he is on the inside, his mind racing and trying to explain any possible explanation for any of this.

But then her hands are on either side of his face, those big brown eyes filled with unshed tears, and he doesn't even know what to say _._ Where to start, really.

"Steve," she murmurs, voice nearly breaking. "I can't believe I've found you, after all this time…"

She looks so hopeful, and he's never had anyone look at him like this. Never, not even once. Like he was the most precious thing in the universe, like he was someone that would be worth moving heaven and earth for. He's not her Steve Trevor, he's not some World War I spy pilot that could even hope of keeping up with a superhero, but the way she looks at him -

He wants to be him so _badly_.

And the fact that he isn't will break her heart. But if he lets her believe that he's someone he isn't, it'll hurt her even more. It's ridiculous, for him to already care so much about a woman he's only spoken to in letters, but Diana Prince is like no one he's ever met.

If anyone deserves to be happy, it's her.

World War I war hero Steve Trevor could have made her happy, it seems. 2018 Steve Trevor that wanders from one war to the next, though, he's unsure of.

"I'm sorry," he says, letting his eyes closed shut. "I'm so sorry. I don't - I don't think I'm really him. I don't remember, I just, well, you know how confused I was about everything and I sort of connected the dots and I saw that picture and-"

"You don't remember?" Diana says, and her voice sounds just as hurt as he was terrified it would be.

"I'm sorry," he repeats.

Diana's expression turns somber.

He tries explaining himself. "I found a picture from 1918. That's how I - I saw my face, the name...A hundred years later, you still think about him?"

Her response is unwavering. "Every day."

"You must have really loved him."

"I do," Diana murmurs, her thumb sweeping across his jaw, and her use of the present tense doesn't get past him.

This is getting a little too much for him.

"I really wish I could be him. I really, really wish I could."

God, he wishes he could.

-/-

Of course, that's the moment Diana's phone decides to ring. She grimaces, murmuring an apology to Steve (and it's _Steve_ , memories or not, he's here and right in front of her), and sees Bruce's name on the display. She blinks back her unshed tears.

"What is it?" she asks, irritated with the interruption.

"I need your help. Something really weird is happening, alright? There's something out there. And I tried - I tried getting close to it but I couldn't."

Bruce sounds flustered, an uncommon occurrence for him. Diana frowns, and Steve looks perplexed beside her.

It seems to click for him when he says, "Superhero stuff, I'm guessing?"

Diana doesn't respond either way. Though he lacks the memory of the man she knew, he still somehow knows her identity to some extent. How is the question, but it's not one she will likely be able to answer now.

She has greater duties to attend to, as she always has and always will.

Diana redirects her attention to her phone conversation. "And why couldn't you, Bruce?"

"It's complicated."

Diana narrows her eyes, tightening her grip on the phone. "I can hardly go into battle in I do not know what I am up against."

"It got into my head, okay, made me see things that weren't there. It did it to Barry, first, and then I tried to help him and - I don't think anyone can do this but you. You're the most powerful out of all of us."

A part of her warms at the compliment, but the trepidation she feels at his words outweigh the rare praise. "How do you suppose I can defeat this creature without succumbing to it in the same way you and Bartholomew did?"

"Well," Bruce exhales. "You're a goddess, aren't you? Your head has gotta be harder to get into. If anyone can beat this thing, you can."

Diana sighs. "Text me the coordinates. I'll be there when I can."

She hangs up the phone. Steve still looks baffled when she meets his eyes once more. "What does Bruce Wayne have to do with some weird creature running loose?"

"Ever heard of Batman?"

"Batman, huh?" he shakes his head, seemingly exasperated. "Guess that makes sense."

Diana wants to stay here, talk to the man she lost so long ago. Try to explain what happened, who she is, who he was. But they're running out of time once more, and if there's a creature too nefarious for metahumans to deal with she has to be the one to take it on.

She wants to ask how he even knows all that he does, wants to ask if he remembers anything at all, if he'd be willing to try to.

But she -

"I know. You have to go save the world," Steve says, a tremulous grin on his lips. "From what I hear, it wouldn't be the first time."

He's so much like her Steve, the one that died in that plane to save the day and end the war in 1918, that it hurts and soothes her all at once. Diana moves to embrace him. Her arms are tight around him, and Steve reciprocates the gesture in no time at all with a kiss to her hair. Memories or not, he's still Steve.

If she loses him again, she...

Diana won't lose him again.

-/-

When Diana arrives at the coordinates Bruce texted to her, there isn't a soul in sight. She's in Veld once more, and the creature's choice of location feels too much to be a coincidence. Whatever was here, it seems to have vacated now. She almost turns around to find her things and call Bruce to see if they can track this creature down to another location, but Diana hears a voice behind her and realizes she doesn't need to.

"Hello, sister."

Diana whips around, sword and shield at the ready. It's a man, or at least, it looks like one. "Sister?" she repeats, her voice disbelieving. "I don't believe I have brothers left."

The man, absurdly tall and thin, only shrugs his shoulders. He seems easy to best in a fight, and she's been fighting for a very long time. "Did you think Ares was the last?"

Diana narrows her eyes. A god, then. "Who are you? Why have you come here?"

The man sighs in exasperation. "I'm Morpheus, Diana, and I've grown tired of seeing you and your friends play heroes."

Her face pinches in bewilderment. "And why is that? What do you want? Why are you here?"

"I've always been here," he tsks in disapproval, "just because you haven't seen me doesn't mean I haven't been. I've been here much longer than you have."

"You haven't answered my other questions," Diana says, her body braced for a battle. She killed one god. She can kill another if she must. "What do you want?"

Morpheus shrugs. "I'm just here to have a good time. Not all of us must have noble motivations.

You don't know how good it feels, how fun it is, to toy with these humans. You can make people believe their greatest dreams or their greatest nightmares are ahead of them," Morpheus says with a cruel grin, and the fog around them only thickens.

It reminds her of the gas in Veld in 1918, the sickly orange hue. This fog is dark and odorless, and the moe she tries to back away from it the more it follows her.

"What does that even mean?" she protests, "And why did you hurt my friends?"

"They were ruining my fun," Morpheus says with a pout. Diana struggles to even see him with this dense cloud surrounding them. "And you are, too. Toying with them, watching them fight, is a great bit of amusement for me."

"That worked so well for Ares," Diana retorts, her voice dry. Morpheus says nothing more, and soon she can't even see him. Diana cannot even see anything, nothing but the orange fog.

She closes her eyes to clear them, and is only met with the sight of an orange explosion behind her eyelids.

"What is this?" she gasps, falling to her knees. Every time she blinks, she sees sights she never wishes to again. Antiope, bleeding out in front of her. So many horrors of war - women and children and innocent people she couldn't save but tried to - and so much blood and suffering. A plane in Veld, exploding in the air and taking its pilot with it.

"Make it stop," she gasps, her hands on her ears as if it will stop these visions, these voices in her ears. ' _You are my greatest sorrow.'_ _'I wish we had more time.'_ "Please, stop this."

"Sorry, Diana. Perhaps now you'll know to leave things be, as they only make you suffer more. It'll last as long as you make it last."

She doesn't get the chance to ask him what he means before the rest of reality slips away, and she's left in Ares' trap for her as she watches Steve die on a cold night in 1918.

-/-

Steve is freaking out, just a little bit.

He left the ice cream shop in a rush (Ali was disappointed they didn't buy anything and confused by Diana's sudden disappearance), and he doesn't know what the hell kind of creature Diana is taking on in Veld, Belgium. Or if he even wants to know.

(He does want to know, or else he wouldn't have peeked at Diana's phone to see the coordinates Bruce Wayne - Batman, he's Batman - sent her. At least his former career as a pilot is useful for being able to tell where the hell they were.)

It's pouring down rain as he walks back to his truck, and he can hear thunder above him. He grimaces up at the sight, trudging through the grass so he can get to the curb he parked at quicker, and almost falls on his face as his boots struggle to find traction in the mud. Steve quickly reaches for the light pole to steady himself. Then, of course, lightning decides to strike.

-/-

When he wakes up, the lightening storm is still ongoing above him. He's soaked to the bone, but he manages to get himself up enough to drag himself into his truck.

That's what Steve gets for being an idiot and touching a metal pole during a lightning storm, he guesses. It's just his luck. Still, getting struck by lightning is supposed to be rare. It's almost like someone up there has it up for him, like Zeus and his lightening bolts-

' _I have no father. I was brought to life by Zeus.'_

' _Well that's neat.'_

He remembers a boat, a woman with dark hair, and an island. And all of the sudden Steve's head starts throbbing, a piercing pain cutting through his skull.

"Motherfucker, that hurts," he groans, hands on either side of his head. He almost wants to be electrocuted again, because then at least if he's passed out he doesn't have to deal with the sudden head-splitting migraine. He thrashes in the seat of the truck, nearly considering how hard he'd have to hit his head on the steering wheel to knock himself back out without giving himself another concussion.

And, just as soon as he's at the end of his rope, the pain is gone. It's like the entire fog in his brain is gone. His head feels clearer than it has in - well, he can't think of it ever feeling clearer - and suddenly it's a lot easier to think. Lightening. Zeus. Carved clay. Diana on the boat.

Well, damn.

He remembers everything.

Joining the military in the 20th century, becoming a pilot, meeting Charlie and Sameer and Chief, hiring Etta, becoming a spy, washing up on the shores of some tropical island. Meeting Diana. Watching Diana take back No Man's Land. Dancing with Diana, kissing Diana, making love to Diana, arguing with Diana -

Leaving Diana to save the day so she could save the world. That last, maniac feeling before he fired the shot in the plane that killed him and took weapons that could kill millions down with him.

Steve doesn't know how the hell he's alive (again?) a hundred years later, and he doesn't know how he suddenly remembers his apparent past life, he doesn't even know what's going on. There's a feeling of dread in his stomach, though, and the fact that a mysterious creature is fighting superheroes in _Veld_ of all places is enough to make him worried.

He's not sure how useful he'd be, but now that he knows who he is and what Diana means to him there's no way he's making her face any of this world alone anymore.

Now, he just has to figure out a way to get to Belgium.

-/-

Bruce Wayne has an office in London. That office, as Steve finds out, has a plane. He used to be a spy, after all, so it's easy to finesse his way from there.

-/-

When he touches down at the coordinates in a slightly stolen plane, Bruce Wayne is already standing there. Diana is nowhere in sight, all that's next to Bruce is a suped-up Range Rover.

"How the hell are you alive?" Bruce asks, looking as if he's seen a ghost as Steve climbs out of the cockpit. "And is that _my_ plane?"

"Honestly? I have no idea," Steve says quickly, eyes darting around the empty clearing. "And yes, it's your plane. I...borrowed it. Where's Diana? What happened? Is she alright?"

Bruce seems to accept the thievery with just an exasperated sigh, one that reflects a length of experience of dealing with ridiculous circumstances.

"Whatever that thing was, it did the same thing it did to Barry. And me. Gets in your head, makes you see things that aren't there. She's in and out of it, has been for a couple of hours," Bruce mutters, gesturing to the backseat of the SUV. "I tried getting her to talk, but everything I could understand were names. Antiope, Steve, Morpheus…"

"Morpheus?" Steve echoes, confused. He tries peering into the car, but the windows are tinted enough that he can't see her inside of it. "Greek god, Morpheus?"

"That's what I assumed," Bruce replies, his voice curt. "I've seen some crazy shit. Aliens, for one. This Greek god stuff, well…"

Steve opens the door of the car before he can finish his sentence. Diana is still in her armor, but she's curled up on the other side of the car and her head is in her hands. When he sits beside her and closes the door, she looks as if she's seen a ghost.

"It's me, Diana, it's Steve," his words are a jumbled mess, but he hopes she can understand him regardless. She's retreated into herself, lost in the haze Morpheus put her in. The god is long gone (he still doesn't know the result of her last battle with a deity - he blew himself up before he got the chance to see what happened - but he assumes Ares is out of the picture). "It's Steve. I remember, angel, I remember everything. I'm right here. I'm right here."

Diana is still hardly responsive, her hands over her ears as she shakes her head. Her armor, it seems, didn't protect her from someone getting into her head.

"Diana," he begs, moving his head down to try to look her in the eye. He tries to pry her hands from her ears, tries to make her listen, but she's always been stronger than him. Steve loves her for it, but right now he really just wishes she'd get out of the stupor she's in. "Diana, please. Open your eyes. Look at me."

Steve cups her face with his hands, and that seems to at least get her eyelids to open. Her brown eyes are hazy and confused, and her eyebrows knit together. Her hands slide away from her ears. "You're not him," she murmurs, shaking her head. "You are not him."

"Maybe I wasn't before, but I am now."

Diana shakes her head again, this time even more feverently.

Steve sighs, taking ahold of the lasso on her hip. He wraps it around his wrists, like he has before, and her mouth falls agape. "I'm Steve Trevor. I remember being Steve Trevor a hundred years ago. I washed up on the shores of your island, you saved me, and I took you to the war because you wanted to save people. You saved a village no one else could. We danced. You fought Ares, except the first time it wasn't really him and it - that really hurt you. I gave you my watch."

He lets his thumb run along where it sits on her wrist, touched she kept it after so many years. Her eyes follow his gaze, and her breathing becomes more even.

"I told you I loved you. Then I got into that plane and pulled the trigger because those weapons could kill millions, and I'd rather it be me than them."

She doesn't say anything. She just stares at him in disbelief. Steve drops the lasso.

"What's in your head, Diana? Let me help you."

"You're dead," she says, shaking her head. "This isn't possible because you're dead."

"Well," he brushes her hair out of her face, the dark ringlets still present even after a hundred years. "I thought the same thing. But I'm here anyway, somehow or another. I guess if gods are real, reincarnation can be too."

She just looks at him like she's trying to solve a particularly challenging puzzle.

He isn't sure whether he should take it as a good sign or a bad one.

"You're Steve," she says, slowly. "The man who washed up on my beach?"

"Yes," he nods, thumb running across her cheek. "It's me. I remember now. I remember you. And I'm not going anywhere."

"How are you here?"

"Well, that's a question that I can't really answer. I don't know. No one really gave me an explanation to why I was apparently brought back to life -"

"No," Diana shakes her head, already seeming much more coherent. "How are you in Veld? I thought I left you behind in London. And how do you remember?"

"I...may have borrowed a plane once I remembered. And I saw your coordinates, recognized them as Veld, in that ice cream parlor. The remembering part…" he shrugs helplessly. "I have no idea."

-/-

They fly back to London, afterwards. Steve pilots, Bruce acts more annoyed than she's sure he truly is, and Diana tries to wrap her mind around the day's events. Steve, her Steve, is alive and remembers her. She has another brother intent on causing harm, one that can make people live out their worst memories and nightmares in their heads. Said brother is still on the loose.

They must find a way to defeat him.

"How are you even alive?" Bruce asks, his voice curious. "You looked the same in 1918. You a god, too?"

Steve just laughs. "No. I have no idea how or what happened. One minute I was dead, the next I'd lived an entirely new life."

"Strange," Bruce grunts.

"Yeah," Steve nods. "That's one word for it."

His matter-of-factness is one of the things Diana has missed most. She grins beside Steve, shaking her head affectionately.

Whatever had brought him back, she's grateful.

-/-

When she and Steve get back to his flat in London, there's something very familiar about the energy between them. Diana is the first to enter, taking off her coat to reveal her armor. Steve lingers in the doorway, eyes never leaving hers. Once the door is shut, he strides over to her and she meets him halfway with a gentle hand on his face. His fingers tangle in her hair.

Their lips meet, and she swears it's been far too long.

"Was that…" he rasps once they separate, forehead pressed against hers and hand still on her face. "Was that okay?"

Diana smiles. "More than okay, Steve."

"Are you feeling okay?" he presses on, a worried crease between his eyes. "After what Morpheus did to you?"

"It was all in my head, that's all," she reassures him, "Morpheus had a way of...getting inside my head. Of the heads of many, it seems. He showed me some of my worst nightmares."

"And you're okay after that?"

"It was all things I had already seen, for the most part."

Steve's expression turns even more aghast. "Diana, I…"

"It makes sense, to use people's dreams and worst nightmares to control them," Diana interrupts, a frown on her lips. "He's much like Ares, in that way. It's not complete control, of course, many fall into darkness without much encouragement at all - at least the divine sort. But it's still…" she pauses, and he lets her think. "I don't know how many lives his influence has consumed."

"I don't think we'll ever really know the line between what's, you know, caused by people here or people above," Steve says thoughtfully. "I still don't know how the hell I'm alive."

Diana falls silent,. She considers his words, about what is truly real and what is influenced. The possible ramifications, the timing of Morpheus and him appearing at the same time, terrifies her.

"What is it?"

It still doesn't _feel_ real, that he's here and with her.

She combs her fingers in his hair, feeling the strands. His eyes, though framed by furrowed brows, are the same shade of blue as she has always remembered. They've always reminded her of home, of the waters of Themyscira that she dragged him out of.

"I'm scared," she reveals quietly.

"Of Morpheus? You can take him. I know you'll kick his ass."

"Not just that."

"Then what?"

"That you're not real," Diana says. "That you're just a figment of my imagination."

"Well, if it helps Bruce Wayne was pretty upset with me for stealing his plane." Steve replies. "He was surprised to see me alive which means, you know, I'm here. You heard our conversation. I didn't know he would have known I existed in the first place."

"He helped me find that picture we took, with Sameer and Charlie and Chief. He must have recognized you from it," Diana explains, but she's still terrified. She doesn't want to wake up the next morning only to find that he's no longer beside her.

"Ah. That was nice of him."

There's a brief pause between them, Diana still mulling over whether she should allow herself to revel in this moment or fear its end.

"Diana," Steve's arms tighten around her. "I feel pretty real. Don't I?"

"You do," she grants. She lets her hands roam over his body, his arms and back. He feels warm and solid, a weight that she finds familiar even after so long. The first man she ever felt. She's had other partners - men and women - but she still has always remembered that night in Belgium. Steve touches her in return, his lips meeting hers and his hands finding the buckles on her armor.

"Let me prove it to you, how real I am."

He takes her by the hand, and leads her back to his bedroom.

-/-

"What's it like?" she asks, once their bodies have cooled. "Having two sets of memories a hundred years apart? Two separate lives?"

Her arms are wrapped around him, and the sheets pooled around them just barely cover their lower halves.

"Like waking up from a dream, I guess. One second I'm in that plane...the next I'm here."

"It must feel quite odd."

"Yeah, that's one word for it," Steve admits. He has all of his memories of when he had no memories (a mouthful of a description that barely makes sense) but it's still hard to place the two of them in the same mind. Steve isn't quite a fish out of water - this situation definitely isn't as drastic as Diana's transition from Paradise Island to London - but it still doesn't feel quite right.

The longer he spends around Diana, though, the more it starts to.

"What happened to everyone? Sameer, Chief, Charlie, Etta? How were their lives?"

Steve still can't believe he missed them.

"Well, Sameer became an actor," Diana says, grinning. "Just like he always dreamed."

Steve matches her smile with one of his own. "No kidding?"

"He was very popular. I went to his movie premieres. His great-granddaughter is on television, now. He lived a very long, very happy life."

"He deserved one," Steve states, his voice quiet. He misses his friends. It hurts like hell that he never got to say goodbye to them, not really. Never got to see what they'd go on to do after the war. "And Chief? What happened to him?"

"He went back to America, reunited with his family. Helped them get through the Depression, hang on to their land and customs even when the legacy of colonialism and assimilation was working to destroy both. Chief had many people who loved him, and held fast to his kindness and spirit. Charlie got help. His attacks only got worse after the war, and we all begged him to try to speak to someone. Most of the doctors were useless, of course, in the 20s. But he found one that listened to him and gave him some tools to deal with the ghosts that haunted him."

Diana speaks of all three men like she was there with them through it all, and Steve fully believes that she was. He just wished he could have been, too. Steve feels wetness pool up in his eyes, and doesn't bother trying to wipe the tears away.

"I'm sure Etta raised hell," he says, his voice choked.

Diana chuckles. "You should have expected nothing less. I felt especially proud of her when she hit a man in the face when he tried to prevent her from reaching the polls," Steve tilts his head back and laughs at the thought, "She stuck with me through it all, Etta did. When the second great war came about, she helped me coordinate what to do and where to go. I owe her a tremendous amount. Etta became known as quite the hero, as she deserved to be. They all did."

"They were. All heroes, that is."

"They all became quite dear friends of mine," she says, her voice quiet.

"I'm glad."

And he really is.

-/-

Diana considers the twist of fate. Steve alive, his friends gone, the time in between just enough to miss their lives but still appear when she needs him the most. The timing of his return, one hundred years later, is interesting to say the least.

"Do you know today's date?" she asks him absentmindedly.

"I think it's past midnight. But this morning, it was November 10th."

"Exactly a hundred years, then," she says, feeling almost in awe. Whoever or whatever is responsible for Steve coming back to her, it all seems very intentional.

"What's on your mind, angel?"

"Maybe," she says, her arm tightening around him. His head is pillowed on her chest. It's still difficult to believe he's here with her. After all this time, she has to wonder what led to his return. "Maybe I have more brothers and sisters that survived than I realize. It would have made sense, for them to go into hiding after what happened with Ares."

"I hope you don't have any more immortal siblings set on making us all kill each other."

"That isn't what I meant."

"What'd you mean?"

"Someone had to bring you back to me. Perhaps they knew I was losing faith, and gave me…"

"Me," Steve finishes, his calloused fingers rubbing patterns on her stomach. "I'd believe it. I feel pretty real - not really like a dream cooked up by another one of your evil brothers. Men in your family really are something, aren't they?"

"Men in general, you might say."

"Sorry for being the one to introduce you. We're not the greatest."

"You may have set my expectations," Diana grins. "You're well above average."

"Considering you've been here for a solid hundred years now, that's quite the compliment," he replies with an easy smile of his own, tilting his head up to look at her. His expression grows more serious as he gazes at her. "And you, of course, are still extraordinary. Getting my memories of you back? Totally worth getting struck by lightning."

Diana considers his words. "Did you say struck by lightning?"

"Yeah," Steve nods. "I think so, anyway. I was out in that thunderstorm while you went to fight Morpheus, I started slipping in the mud so I grabbed a pole to steady myself, and the next thing I knew I had a piercing headache and it all starting clicking into place."

He pauses for a moment, contemplating his own words.

"Wait, do you think that means-"

"It can't be a coincidence that lightning brought you back when it is the very weapon of my father's choosing," Diana frowns, considering the implications. "My father must have returned your memories after we met again. I thought he was gone, but then again I assumed the same of all the gods and goddesses."

"I should have been able to solve that mystery. Sorry, my head was preoccupied with all its new material," Steve pauses, realizing something. "I thought you said you didn't have a father? Zeus just brought you to life? That whole story with the pottery?"

"My mother told me many stories," Diana sighs. "I also believed that all it would take to rid mankind of its evils would be to kill Ares."

Steve purses his lips thoughtfully. "So, you think your dad - Zeus - brought me back?"

"That's what I believe all the signs are pointing to, yes."

"Well, that's neat."

She laughs at the memory.

-/-

Diana wakes up to an empty bed.

She very nearly panics, sure that the last night was just a cruel dream, until she hears a familiar whistle coming from the kitchen. Diana sighs in relief when she walks out of the bedroom and spots him working diligently at the stove, still whistling a tune she doesn't quite remember the name of.

It's his flat, she should have realized it wasn't a dream when she woke up in a bed that wasn't hers, but that brief moment where she was sure her happiness was only temporary was terrifying.

"What are you doing?" Diana asks, wrapping herself up in her robe as she leans against the countertop.

"What's it look like?" Steve responds to her question with one of his own, grinning. He's clad only in his boxers as he flips over the contents of the pan. "Making breakfast. What do you want on your pancakes?"

Diana comes up behind him to wrap her arms around his waist, a watery smile on her lips. She doesn't miss the newspaper on the table. He'd talked, once, of what people do when there isn't war. Breakfast, the paper, going to work.

She often imagined what it'd look like, but somehow this is even better.

Diana presses a kiss to his shoulder. "You choose."

-/-

Bruce texts her another set of coordinates where Morpheus has been sighted. He even adds a resigned comment about letting Steve take his plane. When Diana shows the message to him over breakfast, Steve laughs.

"Nice of him," he acknowledges, "so what's the plan? His main thing seems to be fog, from the sounds of it. Somehow, I don't think a mask would help."

"Fog is much less easy to deflect than bullets," Diana says, tightening the cuffs on her wrists. She's donned her armor once more. "But, if I provide enough of a shock…"

"You can catch him by surprise and get him while he's down," Steve surmises. "Just have to get him when he isn't expecting it."

"Exactly," Diana nods. "And while he caught me by surprise before, it won't happen again."

-/-

Diana finds Morpheus' newest location off a coast in Greece. It seems fitting, much like his previous choice of Veld. The land is abandoned, though the beach is beautiful. The water isn't quite as blue as in Themyscira, but it gets fairly close.

Steve is waiting in the plane, flying circles overhead and preparing for whenever she's ready to leave.

The hope is that she can end this fight soon.

When she feels a hand on her shoulder, she immediately goes on the attack. Her sword swings and misses Morpheus, who just laughs at her attempt. Undeterred, she continues charging at him.

"You seem upset," he says, voice jeering. When Morpheus sends a jet of light her way, it bounces off her shield. Her eyes narrow. "So I'll warn you now. If you think you can beat me, you can't."

"We'll see about that," Diana challenges.

The blows from Morpheus, however, keep coming. They're not quite her father's lightning, but it's clear he picked up something from him. Diana deflects all of them with some effort, and she feels confident about her ability to do so until she spots the fog rolling back in.

It's going to be a greater challenge to both ward off these attacks and deal with the visions that made her so weak.

-/-

Steve comes to the same conclusion, hovering above the battle.

He feels completely helpless, watching Diana fight the worst of Morpheus' blows. There's a fog that's building, and it's only a matter of time before it reaches her. The plan to distract Morpheus and deal him a finishing blow seems to have been turned around back on them. With Diana focused on just fend off Morpheus' attacks, it's only a matter of time before he gets into her head again.

His eyes go to the plane's controls. Bruce's plane's controls. If there's anything a bored billionare knows how to do, it seems, it's souping up a plane.

And well, if there's one thing the American military taught him it's how to shoot at things from a long distance.

-/-

"You have a choice, you know," Morpheus states, looking at her with a note of curiosity as she struggles to fend off his blows. They wouldn't kill her, but they could definitely incapacitate her enough for him to win this battle.

And these attacks only seem to be multiplying.

Morpheus continues on. "You could have stayed away from humans, as your family wisely chose to. You could have even joined us, your siblings, in building a better future for us instead of for them. Humans all die, and you know how much it hurts when you let yourself care. You could be happy."

There's another burst of fog, this time shades lighter and far sweeter smelling. Diana resists the temptation to breathe it in, but even still she catches glimpses of the dream it offers. Blue waters, bright skies, Antiope helping her train, her mother's warmth, the familiar laughter and dancing and song of a life she left behind so long ago.

Then there's a strike from the sky that just narrowly misses Morpheus, causing him to visibly jump. Another one follows.

Diana looks up at the plane that flies over their heads.

Steve seems to have taken the opportunity to distract Morpheus. With a fierce snarl, the spell Morpheus tried to craft breaks and Diana reaches for her sword, swinging in his direction. Morpheus manages to evade the blade, even as Diana outpaces him as she chases him through the clearing.

She crosses her arms in the 'X' that has become so familiar, focusing all her strength on repelling the fog from getting near her. Diana grits her teeth, settles her feet, and with one last shockwave the fog disappears. It only leaves a stunned Morpheus in its wake.

"I have my happiness now," Diana contends, furious at his nerve, "and I'm no more fooled by your promises as I was by your brother's."

She lets herself feel that anger, that indignation that this god thought he could tear apart this earth and make her his puppet. She rises above him, much like she did Ares. Diana crosses her forearms once more, lets herself feel the lightning in her fingertips, and soon generates the power she needs to strike Morpheus down. In one bright light, Morpheus falls to the ground.

Diana comes back down to approach his body, to look down at him as he breathes his last breaths. She's never had a fondness for killing - she's always meant to protect - but if it's what she needs to do to protect the earth she loves and the people in it, well.

She casts a fond look at Steve's plane in the sky before she looks down upon Morpheus.

Diana does what she must.

"You're a fool," Morpheus manages to rasp out, "thinking you can save them."

She shakes her head. "You're the fool for believing that I can't."

"Ah? Then let me show you."

With the last of his strength, Morpheus flicks his wrist. Diana stares at him for a moment, baffled as his hand hits the ground with a thud. It isn't until she looks up that she realizes what he's done. A beam of light is headed towards where Steve's plane is hovering above the water. Dread fills the pit of her stomach. She jumps as high as she can to try and deflect it, to try and do something, anything, to prevent her brother's last attack from hitting Steve.

Then she sees the plane go up in a giant ball of flames, and she knows she's too late. The debris is already falling into the sea and everything is on fire.

Diana dives into the water, refusing to accept it, to let him die in front of her once more. No matter how much she knows he can't have survived, she can't let herself believe it. She reaches for his body and tugs him back to the shore.

She can't lose him again, not when she just got him back.

"Steve," she shakes him once, then again. Diana is crying now, tears rolling down her cheeks, and her motions are more manic than refined. "Steve, please wake up. I still need you. Please don't leave me again."

He's still. Steve's body is intact - she knows it shouldn't be, considering the explosion, and that's what's making her hope - but he still is not not waking up.

"I love you, Steve. Please come back to me."

He doesn't respond.

Diana puts her head on his chest and sobs. She lost him again, in the same way she did the first time. Diana got him back, after so many years of living without him, and she hardly got any time with him at all. She was supposed to have at least the rest of his lifetime, supposed to show him all he'd missed, supposed to tell him just how much she loved him.

She hears a sharp inhale of breath and jerks up in alarm.

Steve opens his eyes, panting heavily. Diana gasps. He smiles.

"Well, this feels familiar," he says, once he manages to find the words.

She lets out a half-laugh, half cry as she leans down to kiss his lips, then his cheeks, then every inch of skin she can manage. Steve lets out a disbelieving laugh of his own, one hand settling at her waist and one in her hair.

"I thought you were-"

"Dead?" Steve finishes, once she's done showering him with her affections. "Again? Honestly...me too. Your dad must have sent me back as an updated version that won't...die in plane explosions."

She dares not to even hope. "You think it means…"

"I guess I'm a hard man to kill," he concludes, coughing as he sits up. "They did say that blast back in Gaza should have blown me to bits. And if that didn't, well," he jerks his thumb at the smoldering mess of the plane, "that _definitely_ should have."

Diana cannot even summon words, her mouth opening and closing as she tries to find something, anything to say.

"You haven't aged a day in a hundred years," Steve observes, hand coming up to gently cup her face. "Think the explosion-proof version of Steve Trevor also won't get any grey hairs? Well, any more of them, that is."

"You think it means I'll get to stay with you forever?" she asks, as he wipes the tears away from under her eyes.

"Wouldn't it be nice to find out?"

She embraces him, at loss for anything to say, and immediately withdraws when he winces.

"Sorry. Explosion-proof, maybe, but I definitely broke a few ribs," he winces, hand going to his midsection. "Re-broke. Legs hurt like hell, too, so one of them is probably broken. Maybe both. And I have more third degree burns. My physical therapist is going to be so confused. God, and I _just_ started to be able to walk again."

She tsks at him as he tries to stand, gently pressing on his shoulders to get him back down. "I don't want to see you injured any further."

"You would think that if I wasn't able to be killed, they'd also make my bones a little sturdier."

"Perhaps there's only so many gifts my father can give," Diana suggests, but she's beaming. All of those years of wondering what life would be like with Steve if they'd had more time, and now they seem to have all of the time in the world. It's the greatest gift she could ask for.

Well, aside from war and injustice being vanquished from the earth.

But she's working on that.

"How am I even gonna get out of the dirt," Steve groans, tilting his head back. "I can't even walk."

Diana picks him up, wordlessly and carefully, and Steve's expression turns sheepish.

"Thanks."

-/-

Steve is back in the hospital, again.

This time, though, he's more grateful for it. For one, he knows all too well what an actual, literal miracle his survival was. Dying once one way is enough to make him not want to do it again. For another, he has the best company he could ever hope for occupying his side.

"The nurses will be scandalized," he jokes, his good arm wrapped around her. "A woman in my bed. I had a nurse in Lebanon that was real nosy about those letters."

Diana grins, shaking her head. "Ah, a hundred years and sometimes I still don't understand your strange customs."

"My knowledge is limited to the start and end of the century," Steve admits. "The middle...well, you were there for it. Maybe you could tell me more about it."

There's a glint in her eye that makes him feel warm. "Perhaps I will."

Steve has never felt luckier in his life.

That feeling only multiplies when she continues to speak. "There were so many times, in that middle, when I wished you were there with me. I wondered what you'd think of the 20s, I knew you would have loved the styles, the speakeasies. Oh, and Etta told me she was quite perturbed you weren't there to see us march to get the vote."

"I would have loved to see it," Steve says, already picturing what Diana must have done to the men that tried to stop her. Etta must have been delighted. He smiles at the thought. "Missed the second great war, too. I bet you kicked some Nazi ass."

"They were even worse than the men we fought in the first war," she acknowledges. "It was sickening to see what evil still existed, even decades later."

"That leaves the 50s, 60s, and 70s, then," Steve lists off. "I - this me - was born in 85. So I guess you could count the 80s, too. God, this two memories of two lives thing is weird."

"You would have hated the fashions," Diana grins, "if you thought the way I dressed was unorthodox…"

"Hey! In my defense, for 1918, it was. I was a spy who was trying to stay low. And it wasn't me disliking the way you dress, the armor…" she's still smiling as he stammers to find the words. "Uh, the armor was...it looked very good on you. Still does. Must be high quality, if it stands up for over a hundred years."

Diana only shakes her head in amusement, her hand moving to run through his hair. "Women in Themyscira knew how to make armor that could outlast anything. I can't say the same for your world."

"Fair enough," he says, eyes fixed to hers. The mood in the room turns more somber, the full weight of everything just starting to sink in. "I'm sorry, Diana."

She screws her nose up, in that way she did all those years ago when he admitted he lied, or when he told her the war was one way as he led her to the other, or when he was saying goodbye and she couldn't understand what he was saying. Her hand moves to his cheek. "What possibly for?"

"For leaving you alone all those years."

Diana doesn't respond, for a moment, and her thumb moves back and forth over his cheekbone. Steve shuts his eyes, comforted by the touch, and doesn't open them again until she speaks.

"You came back."

The words are stated simply, but Steve knows the significance of them.

"Yeah. And I always will."

There's a comfortable moment of silence between them. That is, until Diana sits up further and catches sight of what's outside.

"Look," Diana says, a soft smile on her lips as she gestures to the window. "It's snowing."

"Quite a range of weather we're having in London, huh?" he replies, shaking his head but grinning nonetheless. "Thunderstorms, snow…you still like snow. Let's go outside."

Diana raises her eyebrows. "You're in a hospital bed, Steve."

"Stick me in a wheelchair, I'll be fine, it's not like I can die of hypothermia."

She narrows her eyes.

Steve winces. "Yeah. Too soon. Sorry."

-/-

Diana does help him get into a wheelchair, though. And by 'helps', he of course means she lifts him like he weighs nothing off the hospital bed, sets him in the chair, and has him wrapped in a blanket before he can even blink.

Some men might feel emasculated in his position, but he's never done feeling impressed by her. He could live another century (he probably will, at this rate) and Steve doesn't think he'll ever stop feeling constantly amazed by all that she is. Diana takes them both out to the room's balcony (and of course this is easily the nicest hospital he's ever been in) and carefully sits herself in his lap. His broken leg is still in a cast, but he doesn't see himself complaining even if she is hurting it.

Which she might be. A little bit.

But the snow gets stuck in her dark hair and he's reminded of a night in Veld a hundred years ago. Diana doesn't have that same look of wonder in her eyes - she's probably seen hundreds of snowfalls by now - but there's a lightness to her face as she looks up at the falling snow.

"Not as cool as the first time, huh?"

Diana's lips turn upwards. "I'm starting to see the magic in it again."

His responding smile makes it hard for him to kiss her properly, but he manages when she ducks her head down to meet his. It's a soft thing and it only lasts a few seconds, but it warms him enough that he hardly feels the cold at all.

"I love you," he tells her, this time without the threat of his own impending death hanging over his head. It's different, to say it in this context. Steve can see the expression on her face, the way her eyes scan his face, the pink it adds to her cheeks. He was gone before he could see her reaction, before.

Definitely gone before he could get a reply.

"And I love you."

He wonders if she feels the same way, saying it to him. Steve will have to ask her, sometime.

They have _time_ now.

The same thought must have occurred to her. "You told me something once, Steve Trevor."

He raises his eyebrows. "Yeah, and what's that?"

"When there's not a war, people...make breakfast. Read the paper. Go to work. Get married. Have children."

"Ah," he hums thoughtfully. "I also told you I had no idea what that was like."

Diana looks contemplative. "Would you ever want to?"

"Diana…"

"All you've ever known is war," she continues, undeterred by Steve's protestations. It's almost like it's 1918 again. "Wouldn't you like to know what it's like to not live in it?"

He considers her words for a moment. Sure, it sounds appealing. No war, no more casualties, no more constantly not knowing if your friends will live or die. But it's not the world he knows. It's not the world he's ever known, and the only reason she ever did is because she was living on some paradise island that he managed to accidentally crash into.

Maybe one day he'll get to see it - a world with no war.

That'd be neat.

In the meantime, he's content to help Diana get that future. Help her save the world, though she's perfectly capable of doing it on her own. He'd be more than content just to support her as much as he can. Being in Diana's presence - even in the midst of war - is more rewarding than hiding in peacetime could ever be.

Besides, if there's something going wrong in the world he's never been the type to lay back and accept it. Steve has tried doing nothing before, and it's never worked out for him. Here with Diana, in the fight against fighting, is where he belongs.

And it doesn't hurt that he has divine intervention to prove it.

"Maybe one day we'll find out," he says simply. Steve takes ahold of her hand, tangling his bandaged fingers with hers.

She opens her mouth as if she's about to say something, but Diana seems to stop herself as she looks down at their hands. "Together," she says, her voice barely audible.

"Yeah. Together," he agrees, voice soft. "Maybe we can have both, you know? Newspapers, breakfasts, dancing...and saving the world."

Diana lets her head fall on his shoulder. "I'd like that very much."

"Me too."

Steve wraps his arms around her, casts and all, and looks up at the sky as the snow falls. He's never felt luckier to be alive.


End file.
